Stay
by DarkestAngellic
Summary: No, Chaos, you are not allowed to die and that is final.


_**Disclaimer: I own nothing from FFVII, not the settings, not the characters, not the names. Nothing. I own absolutely nothing. It is all the property of the wonderful Square Enix.**_

* * *

Panic. Blind, heart-stopping panic. On any other day he would be taking this opportunity to strike out at Strife - so temptingly close - but for once there's something _more important _than the despised blonde who dared use _Angeal's _Buster Sword against him all those years ago.

No, it's panic that has him firmly in its grip. Concern is there, on the outskirts, but it's mainly a panic that flares to barely concealed terror when there's a sudden lack of subtle energy from the Protomateria he always kept on his person.

_Chaos -!_

He'd _told _that idiot not to attempt such a feat alone - an argument that had somehow managed to unite he and the members of AVALANCHE for this one day - to not fight his brethren on his own. Yes, the rampaging WEAPONs would probably harm the humans willing to fight by his side, would probably prove a challenge for _him_ even with all his enhancements and God-like abilities, but that did not for one second mean Chaos should have gone off on his own. It was a fool's effort.

One that might have just cost Sephiroth's mate his life, if the cold Protomateria was anything to go by.

He doesn't remember manifesting his wing to get there faster, doesn't remember the shouts from those he left behind ordering him to "get your ass back here this instant!". One moment he's standing removed from the group, staring at the massive cloud of dust that marks the place both WEAPONs had clashed and collided into a building, and the next he's dropping down in the middle of it, fanning at the air with ebony flight limb in a useless attempt to clear the air enough for his enhanced sight to properly visualise the collapsed rubble and scattered remains of the large WEAPON Minerva herself had sent to eradicate - or rather attempt to - the remains of Jenova's legacy still roaming the physical realm.

Chaos, naturally, had had quite the tirade to spit about that knowledge.

_You fool. I warned you. How many times can you oppose this bitch of a Goddess before she strikes you down? How many times must I see you die?_

It was a fear of his, one he refused to speak and yet… Chaos probably knows… knew… no, he'd be all right. He'd pull through. He'd been through worse… This wouldn't be his final death, Sephiroth wouldn't allow it. He'd fight his way into the Lifestream and haul the bastard back out if he had to, Minerva's presence there be damned.

Relying on his sense of smell is no good, the collapsing of the building is too fresh for him to distinguish anything other than crushed cement, steel, dust, dirt, fire and smoke. He can't sense anything either. Sight and hearing it was, then, and so he starts calling out. One word, his mate's name, over and over while he careful picks the placement of his feet to avoid shifting rubble. He had no idea where Chaos was trapped beneath it, he didn't want to injure him further.

Injure, yes. Chaos would still be alive to feel pain and to bleed, he had to be.

"Chaos! Answer me you decrepit old fool!"

* * *

There! Was that a wing-tip? He hoped it was, catching himself nearly sending a plea to the other deities that he wasn't simply imagining that small glimpse of crimson membrane.

No, it's Chaos. He's found the reckless idiot, lower half pinned by fallen steel and the remains of several collapsed floors and _both_ wings broken, bloody tatters. His front is a mess, no doubt from his initial collision with the enemy WEAPON, and there's blood _everywhere_, but he's breathing, faintly, his chest barely moving.

Strong teeth pull at the black encasing his fingers until he can toss the glove aside, and then he's cautiously kneeling beside his mate and laying his palm flat on that chest. Faint heartbeat, weak and stuttering, but a heartbeat all the same, and down he leans to press his lips to Chaos' ear, murmuring to him, hoping he can hear, all but pleading for him to hold on while curative magic sets to healing the damage to his wings and the internal injuries before he can bleed to death.

Hours - how many? Three? Four? Half a day? - pass in which Chaos is brought back from knocking on death's door and freed from the crushing weight trapping him from hips down, taken to the nearest Inn and tucked firmly into bed. Any other day Sephiroth would be tempted to break at least one of Tifa's bones for daring to touch what was _his_, but this is far from an ordinary day and he's too preoccupied with _staring_ at the rise and fall of a badly bruised chest to care about much else. So long as there was movement, Chaos was still alive. So long as there was an inhale and exhale, there was less risk of him dissolving into the Lifestream.

_Hours_ pass before there's a cracked whisper of his name in gravel tones his ears will never forget, startling him out of the light slumber he'd somehow fallen into. Sephiroth comes up onto his feet and to the bedside in the span it takes for a single heartbeat, something in him breaking and free-falling at the smallest hint of amber framed by dual-tone fringing.

"Chaos -" It's only the awareness that his mate will still be in severe pain that halts him from outright pouncing upon the taller male, but latch almost viciously onto hair caked in dirt and dried blood he does, yanking Chaos' head up as he dips down to crash their lips together. It's harsh, bruising, _desperate_, marked with a nipping bite and the tightening of fingers and hot tears painting salty tracks down chalky white cheeks before the madman is drawing back just enough to let Chaos breathe.

"Don't you _ever_ do that to me again, else I'll kill you myself." He'll deny it later, but his voice wavers precariously with that hissed promise. But it prompts hitching, somewhat pained laughter from the bedridden WEAPON. Laughter that means Chaos is still _there_, laughter that soothes something raw and fearful in him…

Maybe he won't hold this against Chaos for _too _long…

Or maybe he will. The idiot robbed him of a perfect opportunity to remove Strife's head.

Or perhaps he should just stop thinking and lie beside Chaos. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. A very good idea. Try to touch him now, Lockhart, and your arm comes off.


End file.
